There was little to pack, and the same afternoon saw them on their way to Portham Junction, and as the dreary bungalow town opened before them, hideous and forbidding, their hearts sank within them. Even Ena’s spirits were damped, and she clung to Jack for a moment.
“I’m afraid, I don’t know why,” she said, “but I feel as though we were going into a black tunnel, ever so deep and long.”
“Never mind, dear,” he said to reassure her “as long as there’s an opening the other end.”
So Fate plays havoc with our lives.
Chapter II.
The Coming of the Stranger
Ena Sefton was returning from the local grocer, who carried on a desperate, and fortuitous existence during the winter months, hoping to reap a harvest in the summer. The place now was derelict, like a show when the season has finished, and the few inhabitants wandered round like the survivors of a plague.
Some of the bungalows had wooden shutters nailed over the windows to save the glass, and looked like houses of the dead. Others showed through the uncurtained windows dim suggestions of deck chairs, and furniture covered with sheets. Pebbles and sand covered the verandas, and pools of discoloured water stood in the rutted road.
There was no symmetry or order about the bungalows; some more pretentious than others, showed marks of distinction, such as a ship in full sail over the roof, as a wind-vane, or a conservatory where languid flowers and shrubs waited for the spring. These were the aristocrats of Bungalow Town. Nestling between two such, would come a chubby democrat, quite unashamed of his appearance, made of two railway carriages with a pent roof over them, and a notice stating that “This Desirable Bungalow” was “to be Let Furnished.”
In the summer all alike would be crowded with happy people, but now they were ruinous and depressing.
Ena made her way down the road, stopping now and then as a fierce blast struck her and a blinding spindrift nearly choked her.